


The Graceless Holy King

by Gay_as_fuck



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dreams, Father-Son Relationship, Fear, Fear of Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm bullshitting my way through warcraft, Prayer, Religion, Religious Discussion, but pay no mind, some OCs in filler positions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gay_as_fuck/pseuds/Gay_as_fuck
Summary: His son is dying and there is nothing the High King of Stormwind can do to save him.





	The Graceless Holy King

**Author's Note:**

> hi i know nothing about wow's plot so I think this is an AU idk... I love Anduin wrynn i'm so sorry son

They brought his son home in pieces. It took two knights to lift the mangled body of his son onto his bed. Varian had known those knights by name, but now, he could not even recall what race they had been. They might have been human, dwarvish, elven, it did not matter. There was no space in his head for faces or names, his mind was consumed by a single thought; Anduin.

Anduin had started his training, his fighting, his killing but here he looked too small and frail. The body was barely holding itself together. His legs lay in a way that seemed unbound by the natural movements of the body. The limp and heavy appendages hung there as if they were leaves instead of bone.

His son was barely breathing. He had to put his ear to his son’s chest to hear it, and even then it barely made a sound. It was a rasping sound that forced its way out of Anduin’s lungs. When he had last heard that sound it had been years ago. The deathbed of a close friend, who had then whispered a final word and left the world. He had never been gifted with the sight but he had known when her soul rose up into the light.

He forced himself up and away from his son in just enough time that he slammed his fist into the wall and not that wheezing stomach. He had lost so many people over the years, and Varian Wrynn swore he would not lose his son.

It was a simple set of words, a refusal that Anduin would die. Anduin had to live. There was nothing he could do. It had been his wife, and his son, that had been blessed with the magic. Wrynns had always been good at magic, skilled with light. The great king Edelhart had made a book of pure light. It had been lost to the ages, along with all the great creations of Stormwind kings. Anduin, the greatest achievement of Stormwind King Varian Wrynn, seemed soon to follow.

Varian’s mind focused on these things, simple and worn at the edges of his mind while he watched the eerie stillness of his son’s body. He did not leave that room the first day. He sat in the chair from where he had once read stories to his son. The castle healers sat around Anduin’s bed and did what they could.

The muttering of those healers became a blur of background noise. Their healing words came from prayers. The solid dwarvish of Silverhand priests traded away to the complex yet familiar tones of the Church of the Holy Light.

Varian wanted then, more than anything, for his wife to be here in his stead. She had been the best healer in Stormwind and arguably the world. Her fighting had turned men to ash in a moment. That strong hand and steel voice could have saved Anduin.

Through his formative years, a handful of scholars had tried to teach Varian the ways of magic. Even simple spells were lost to him. He would mangle the words and draw the symbols wrong. On the rare days he did manage to get both things right, nothing would happen. To the horror of all his advisors, the young prince had no magic to speak of.

Rumors had spread then, that a black dragon might have cursed him. That was what they were best at, bringing misfortune to all. If a black dragon had cursed him it had done more than take his magic. Everyone he cared for seemed to die. It had been Anduin who had made it this far, despite everything. Not even his gifted son could seem to whether his father’s storm.

A heavy pair of footsteps turned Varian’s thoughts still. At his side was a Dwarf, dressed all in white and a Draenei by his side.

“Who?” was the only word that made it out of Varian’s mouth. It was only then he noticed how chapped his lips were and how dry his throat. The dwarf spoke first, his eyes full of pity.

“I am Grymek Stouthelm, a priest trained in bone stitching. The best the Ironforge has to offer.” The Draenei by his side spoke up, her voice deeper than his with the sound of stone scraping on stone.

“I am Edibelli. I trained with the Hand of Argus. It is a shame it took us so long to reach the capital but I am glad we are finally here to help.” That was odd, Varian could have sworn he’d only spent a day at most watching his son. As he looked at the bed, he noticed the priests were ones he’d never seen before.

“How long did it take you?” He asked, saliva finally pooling in his mouth again. Edibelli looked confused and then hummed something under her breath.

“It took us five days.” Was all she said before leading herself and Grymek towards Anduin. Varian took the moment to look around. Someone had moved a small table to his side. Upon it was a glass of water, half empty. A meal sat next to it, also only half eaten.

He stood because that was the only thing to do. He could not help his son, and he had neglected to help his kingdom. Five days of being locked away after such a battle. His people needed reassurance and he had failed. Just as Anduin was his son they were his children in spirit.

“Thank you,” Varian said aloud and was shocked by the volume of his voice. It was louder than he had intended it to be. He left the room before anyone could even start a response. He went right to his study, in hopes of some time to plan a speech. He couldn’t make it ten feet before an advisor rushed up to him and pulled him away.

There were budgets to plan and papers to do. The kingdom had not slept the five days he had holed up in his son’s room. He had to write a declaration to every sect that sent him healers. Gifts for his son had piled up in the great hall.

A pile of flowers lay on the throne, covering it completely. A quilt of bouquets, half of which were dead. The smell overwhelmed Varian the moment he entered the throne room. For the next three days of planning and pacing, he didn’t dare go to see his people or his son.

It was on a ninth day since the world had brought Anduin back to him, barely clinging to life, when he returned to his son’s room. He sat in the chair again and watched. The medics were trying, drawing symbols in salves and filling the room with ten kinds of incense. Five priests huddled over his son, each praying to their own god. The Dwarf and the Draenei were still there, the pair’s voices were louder than the others, though not more passionate.

Grymek yelled his prayers and spells from a metal bound book. A night elf whispered her prayer in a way that made the room smell like flowers instead of rotting blood. It was all too much, yet Varian refused to leave. His son would live, and then he would tell his people what had happened. The record would be set clear but first, this must be done.

He had not slept well in those nine days, he had barely slept at all while his son had yet to wake. He was not a man made for healing. A holy king who could not do the holy, a refined man with the bite of a wolf. A feral creature that had donned a crown and claimed it was his birthright.

Lo’Gosh, the white wolf made only for bloodshed, moved from the chair to his knees and let his voice join the chorus. He clasped his shaking hands together and prayed. His call went out first to the Light, as it always did. That had been what his wife had prayed to, and when she had called upon it the Light had never failed her. It had only been when Varian was praying over her body that she had left it.

He spoke the prayers he remembered of the Church of the Holy Light. He went through every thought he could give before his tongue turned tail and fled to another source of prayer. He spoke in disjointed Tauren, trying his best to imitate the shamans he had once seen. They had cured a man of plague, an awe-inspiring feat.

He asked the makers for a moment if they created such a strong race as the Dwarves than surely they might lend their aid to a dying boy. Even if they had not made him, they could claim him. He pledged to turn to any god that would save his son. No one answered. His tongue failed him by the time he reached old gods and dragon worship. His voice simply gave out and he was forced to curl in back on himself. Tears poured down his checks, tracking over those he had already shed.

Two days of prayers and nothing had come to help his son. He would lose the only blessing he had left. The kingdom would lose the best leader it could possibly imagine. In the darkest parts of his thoughts was a quiet pleading. When things were dire the cowardly always turned away and into the dark.

_Void. You can take me but do not take my son. Take me, take everyone I’ve ever known. Let all who have wronged me win the day but do not take my son from me._

He let out a howl at that, loud and pitiful. It drew the attention of the priests, half of whom took a step towards him. The others took a step back. With that, he collapsed down into sleep.

In his dreams, there was a woman. Everything was bright and fuzzy, she was close to him and yet a million worlds apart at the same time. It took him a moment to realize who she was. This was Tiffin, who he loved, and who had loved him.

“Varian. Our son’s soul wishes to go upwards and return to me, but it is not my time to take him. The kingdom needs him. You need him. I know what you have been doing, and to whom you have been praying. It will not work.” She held her hand out to him. Varian looked away from her as a sob caught in his throat.

“In the morning, find my locket and hold it close. Pray for it, but only to the light. It is the best I can do to pray for you.” Varian nodded and stepped towards her. He grabbed her hand but suddenly she was gone. A black abyss was all that was left, a construct of her absence. It swallowed him whole. He awoke with a start, in his bedroom. There was a glass of water on the bed stand, full to the brim. He took a sip and tasted only the clear coolness of relief.

He knew he should not be relieved and yet he was. The locket hung around his neck, as it always did. He carefully removed it and held it in his steady hands. Not a tremor or shake to them.

He had nothing to say, though he wanted to apologize to the light, to his wife, to his son. Instead, he thought of Tiffin’s sweet kiss and the bright smiles of Anduin. His mind carried him to the bright parts of his mind and let him linger there.

He was only drawn from his memories when the door opened with a slam. There was Edibelli, her eyes alight with worry. Varian stood in a moment, and the calm he had felt swept away leaving him in an undertow of uncertainty.

“He will live. He will lose the legs, but he will live.” Her gravely voice became that of an angel, solid and sturdy. He ran as fast as his body would take him, down the twisting halls. He only stopped when he skidded to a halt at the entrance to Anduin’s room.

He opened the door as slowly as he could as if a single sound would doom his son. Anduin lay there, on his blood-stained bed sheets. His breathing looked even, and the sound of his lungs was no longer a rasp. The steady strain of his son’s body was all Varian needed. He went to his son’s bedside and placed a hand on a sweat covered forehead.

“He lives.” Varian’s words became more a question than a statement. A chorus replied, the five priests with Edibelli at the door. His wife’s voice joined them also, clear and bright in the back of his head.

“He lives.” 


End file.
